


Mercy

by LananiA3O



Series: Darksiders Week Prompt Fills [1]
Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Referenced Major Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27945878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LananiA3O/pseuds/LananiA3O
Summary: When War returns triumphant to Ulthane, the maker presents him with a gift that leaves War with a single, dread-inducing question: what happened to his brother, Strife?
Relationships: Strife & War (Darksiders)
Series: Darksiders Week Prompt Fills [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2046560
Kudos: 19





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Written to fill prompt #1 of Darksiders Week 2020: "War questions Ulthane about why he has one of Strife’s guns and learns of Strife’s death." I always found it weird that War never even asks Ulthane about Strife in the game.
> 
> Disclaimer: This work was written for publication on Archive of Our Own and my personal Tumblr and is not for profit. Any re-publication on for-profit/monetized sites/apps is not authorized or supported by me. If you come across such a re-publication, please leave a comment in my tumblr ask box. Podfics and translations may be authorized upon request.

"Horseman," the maker bellowed. "I've got something for you. A fair bit o' work, but... it's a bit dainty for me. It'll serve you better."

War stopped walking and turned around just fast enough to catch the object that had been hurled in his direction. It was a four-barrelled pistol, its adamantine gleaming almost faintly gold in the warm light of the maker's forge. War looked at the delicate runes decorating the barrels and froze.

He knew that pistol. Not as well as he knew Chaoseater, but well enough to feel the sudden heaviness in his hand as a thousand potential scenarios of how the maker had come by this specific weapon sank in. Dread pooled in the Red Rider's gut. Only a moment later, it turned into bright, hot anger. War gripped the gun tightly and pointed it straight back at the maker.

Ulthane, as usual for his specific breed of Old Ones, was, or at least acted, unimpressed. "Do I look like I'm afraid of death, boy?"

"It is not Death you should fear," War spoke through clenched teeth. "This gun is called Mercy. It belongs to my brother, Strife. You will tell me how you came by it, or I will make you rue the day you came to Earth."

The maker blinked. For a fraction of a second, it seemed like he was actually willing to get into a fight. To War's utter disappointment, he decided to turn around and head for his anvil once more instead.

"What makes ye think I don't rue that day already?" Ulthane asked with a sigh and for the first time since War had met him, the Blackhammer sounded... discouraged. Almost saddened even. "Leave now, Horseman. You have work to do."

"The Destroyer has waited for judgment for a hundred years," War growled back. He marched over to the maker once more, until he was just out of reach, and pointed the four barrels at him again. "He can wait a few minutes more for you to answer my question. How did you come by my brother's weapon?"

Ulthane looked at the gun, then at War, back at the gun, back at War, and eventually gave a loud sigh as he put aside his hammer and grabbed the edge of the anvil with both hands. His head hung low and so did his voice.

"He gave it to me before he died."

"Do NOT lie to me," War growled back at him and pushed the gun to the maker's head. "Where is my brother?!"

"Where all souls of the dead go," Ulthane spoke softly. "Hopefully."

One of the many harsh truths of the universe was that, as daunting as the prospect seemed—to go through the Kingdom and the City of the Dead and into the Well of Souls, to start a new life fresh and unburdened by past memories or feelings was the kindest thing that could happen to any soul in the universe. The alternative was going insane, even feral, becoming an abomination of spirit with no flesh. Or falling prey to a soul eater. Or being trapped in a useless cluster of regret, to be picked up by some lucky adventurer eventually. Or being used as fuel for weapons, armor and devilish machinery. Or, if the universe was particularly merciless, being captured by someone who took pleasure in torturing the eternal spark of life, twisting and corrupting it until it no longer resembled its original form.

Ulthane knew all this and so did War.

"I met him here on Earth," Ulthane eventually said, and if War was not entirely mistaken, he almost sounded... sad. "I had fled my home as it was taken over by Corruption and ended up here with two other makers. Elanya. Yarin. We planted a maker tree in which to provide refuge for any humans lucky enough to have survived the early years of the apocalypse. Yer brother found us. He was on the run from the Council, said they had sent him to the White City on a mission with impossible odds that nearly got him and his horse killed. We struck a deal. He was going to send any humans he could find our way and we would help upgrade and maintain his gear. It was a good deal... while it lasted..."

"What changed?" As much as War hated to admit it, the maker's words rang true. The Council were not to be trusted and Strife especially had been suspicious of them from the start. If there was ever going to be one of the four who would abandon a mission from the Council, it was Strife. Or Death. But Strife would do it _gladly_.

"The Destroyer attacked Haven," Ulthane answered, and suddenly his voice was heavy as stone. "I don't know where he gains his power from, but nothing yer brother or I did to him seemed to leave so much as a dent." He shook his head, swallowed hard. "Yarin fell first. Then Elanya. When I saw the Destroyer's fangs take yer brother's arm and pierce his helmet, I tried to transport us both back to the Forgelands, but the path was barred. You seen that wee pond outside my home?"

Considering maker understandings of size, War could only assume he meant the lake with the sunken buildings and the demon fish. "I have."

"That's where yer brother died."

The maker sighed, picked up his hammer once more, and went to work on another piece of weaponry. A sword. Maybe an axe. Or a spear. For once, War's interest in weaponry had evaporated into thin air. All that was left now was the sinking sensation, that empty, ever-growing pit in his gut that told him the Blackhammer was speaking truth.

It wasn't until War finally lowered Mercy that Ulthane looked at him again. His eyes, more than anything else, told War a tale of sorrow, regret, and genuine misery.

"Yer brother had three requests of me before he died," Ulthane said, and although he spoke loud and clearly, it took War every ounce of focus to block out the mad, gleeful cackling of the Watcher bound to his arm and the part of his brain that kept on arguing that it could not be true, that Ulthane must be lying, that Strife could not have died. "Keep his guns safe, help you if I could--"

"Redemption?" War cut in quickly. Finally somethign to distract his brain from running in useless circles! It was not a feeling he was acustomed to, much in contrast to Strife. He hated every second of it.

"Lost in our failed attempt to reach the Forgelands." Ulthane shook his head. "It could be in the Forgelands now. It could be here on Earth. It could be lost in the ether for all I know."

"You said there were three requests?"

Ulthane nodded towards the entrance to his forge. "Yer've seen the undead humans prowling throughout the city? That's the Destroyer's work. There've been undead angels and demons as well." He rested the hammer once more and shook his head. "Yer brother's third request was for me to burn his body. And so I did, by that fountain where you and the pigeon missy had yer little scrap. I buried his armor beneath the fountain."

War frowned. He wanted to say something, but all the words stuck in his throat. He wanted to punch the maker, but even that felt wrong. From the vault cage in his left arm, the Watcher sprang forth with a frustrated growl.

"And what of the humans you so _galantly_ protected?" The creature mocked. "You just left them to die at Haven?"

For the first time since they had met, Ulthane seemed to think exactly the same thing War did. War was sure. It was hard to mistake the fervent wish to strangle someone with their own guts for anything else.

"The humans are safe."

"Where," the Watcher pushed.

"Where I sent them."

"How?"

"Now see," Ulthane picked up his hammer once more and leaned closer, as if he wanted to whisper a secret right in the Watchers ear. "There's this thing makers use to go anywhere..."

"Yes??"

"It's called magic."

Under any other circumstance, War might have smiled, maybe even laughed. For a moment, the dark smoke surrounding the Watcher flashed like a bursting fire and if it had not been for the black blood flowing through the creature's veins, War was sure its face would have turned red in anger.

"You will tell me where they went!" The Watcher hissed.

Ulthane grinned. "Yer guess is as good as mine, Watcher, because I'm not the one who decided where they went. There are thousands of habitable realms in this universe. Have fun searching."

The Watcher rattled off a string of curses in a language War could not decipher, then disappeared back into his gauntlet. It was probably for the best. He had heard enough. War turned around and marched back to the entrance again, only for Ulthane to call out his name. He looked back over his shoulder with a deep scowl on his face and found Ulthane looking infinitely weaker and infinitely smaller than any maker had any right to look.

"I'm sorry I could not save yer brother, Horseman."

War continued back through the tunnel, acrosss the plaza and straight to the fountain.

It could not be true. Strife was a thrill-chaser, a hothead, and an idiot, but he was also the luckiest creature War had ever known. No matter how bad the odds, no matter crazy the plan, Strife always survived. _Harder to kill than any weed in the cosmos_ , as Death had once put it.

War equipped the tremor gauntlet, rose his fist, and slammed it down hard against the stone. The fountain broke into a thousand pieces at the impact, stone crumbling to his feet and pushing up a cloud of dust. The water was everywhere, cold and dirty and faint red from the blood of the angels who had died here, but War could not have cared less. He raised his fist and punched again. And again. And again. And again.

By the time he saw the first speck of what was definitely not dirt, the gauntlet had smashed a hole three feet deep. There, amidst the garish brown and gray of the ruins of human civilization, a piece of adamantine shone bright in the fading sunlight. War knelt down and started digging, careful not to do any more damage to the treasure than his gauntlets already had. When he finally finished unearthing the piece, his shoulders sank.

If anyone had handed the object to him without any information of where it had come from, War could have declared it nothing but a piece of irregular junk. Flatted and dented at the same time, it looked like it had been warped by something powerful enough to tear down a mountain, except it bore the uncanny marks of long, sharp teeth, piercing through the top left of the item, and the wobbly lines that usually indicated crude treatment with fire. They had turned the only two holes that seemed to be there by design into thin, irregular slits. A piece of junk. Nothing more.

Except War knew better.

He knew that those irregular lines had been sharp as a blade once.

He knew that the item had been oval in shape, except for the protruding part at the bottom.

He knew the two slits had been ovals, just wide enough to provide sight to a pair of pale gold eyes.

War pressed the warped visor to his chest and let out a roar of pure anguish and rage. For the first time since Eden he felt the sting of water and salt in the corners of his eyes. For the first time since Eden, he felt the sting of a wound that would never heal, a scar that would not fade.

"Oh, such a tragedy..." The Watcher mocked as he reappeared, prodding at the rest of the remains underneath the fountain. "I guess I should report back to the Council that we need to find a new enforcer..."

War reached for Mercy and felt the cold of grief twist into white hot rage inside of him. That Watcher was never going to see the Council again.

But first... first he was going to slay the Destroyer.


End file.
